War and Wonder
by cantankerousMaiden
Summary: Business has called Willow to the Little Paris of the East. There she meets a welcome face, but there's no time for a proper reunion; something bad is going down in Bucharest, and he'll need her help to set it right. Post s7, very technically slight AU.
1. Chapter 1

War and Wonder

Chapter One

A/N: Hey guys! I just want to take a second to point out that this is only technically an AU in the fact that I disregard season eight entirely – partially because I haven't read most of it, partially because I just plain don't like it. This is my playtime, I can do that. If my time line is right, and it could be flawed, this would be set around 2006-2007, 3-4 years after the close of season 7. I'm also not sure how far this will go, as I started writing on a spur-of-the-moment sort of thing, but we'll see. Thanks for your time and happy reading!

* * *

Follow love and it will flee thee;

flee love and it will follow thee.

-Romanian proverb

* * *

Bucharest. It was a nice city, she supposed. Willow had seen lots of nice cities in the past few years, but this one really was lovely. It had the old world-y feel that put her so at ease, what with the cobblestones and old buildings and creepy gypsy grandmothers calling to tourists from dark alleyways and whatnot. It was a sort of ephemeral quality sadly lacking in the western cities, she felt. Paris had been a big disappointment. Might as well have been a snooty New York City.

Bucharest, though. She was in Bucharest. The big one, in Romania. Sometimes Willow would be sitting on a train or looking out her hotel window at a big, strange city, beautiful and foreign, and be suddenly astonished that it wasn't Sunnydale. There would be a moment where her glamorous, frightening life and the grown woman living it seemed as strange as the cities themselves, and she would panic. Just for a moment. Big, bad, spell-flingin', Slayer-activatin' Goddess-Willow didn't walk around having nostalgia-sparked anxiety attacks all the time; that would be silly. But still, every so often, the strangeness would catch up with her, and it was all she could do not to scream.

"Uh... vin... fiert? Multumi."

The swarthy old barista turned around and started pouring, mixing and heating things, so Willow assumed she had placed her order successfully. Good for me, she thought with a trace of smugness. Any old jet setter could figure out how to buy a croissant in France, but it took real savvy to navigate a Romanian coffee shop. She shuffled sideways to the cashier and presented him with a fistful of pastel banknotes. She wasn't sure she received correct change, but screw it. Who cared.

Willow was soon presented with a styrofoam cup of something hot and sweet smelling, and pleasure rippled through her. She wove her way through the crowd in the shop and made for the tables lining the street. The nights were growing colder and the sun was fixing to set, but it was too loud inside. Willow's tolerance for rowdy crowds had diminished rapidly in post-adolescence. I'm getting old, she thought. Old and boring.

It was a nice evening, though. Quiet. Normal. Folks bustled up and down the sidewalk in the failing light, chattering away, totally ensconced in the tiny, private dramas that made up the entire scope of their narrow little lives, as if good and evil did not, at that moment, wrestle for dominance. Willow envied it. She had spent her entire life desperate to be special, and now, well. Special could be a burden sometimes.

Pulling out a chair and sipping at her drink, Willow choked and spluttered in a very undignified, unwitchy way. The sweetly spiced concoction she had _assumed _to be distantly related to chai or something was, in fact, booze. Sweet, spicy, searing hot booze. Most of which was now slopped down her front. Awesome.

"Thanks, Romania," she griped aloud, wiping at her blouse. "Really. Spikin' my tea, like I don't have enough fun already. Stupid Europe."

"Can you really blame the entire continent for one misbegotten beverage?"

Willow's heart stopped.

She stood frozen for what seemed like several very long, very busy lifetimes. Her mind had simply shut down. Closed up shop. Gone fishin'. The most logical explanation was hallucination, of course. It was no secret that Will had not always played with a full deck, and while she was not often prone to hearing things, she wouldn't put it past herself to start. The second most likely scenario was that some horrible apparition or other was playing a very mean, very personal joke on her. That happened sometimes. The actual, genuine article standing behind her was somewhere at the bottom of the feasibility list, right behind drug-induced fantasy during a root canal. Slowly, she turned. And she gasped.

His hair blazed copper in the dying sunlight. Was that his natural color? She realized dimly that she didn't know. It had changed so frequently in their youth. He was still short statured, of course, but he seemed broader in the chest. Harder in the face. Wildness was written in every line in his body. He had grown. But his eyes were still heavily lidded and his thumbs still hooked automatically into his belt loop, and she knew, she knew right away that this was no copy. Oz. Accept no substitutions. The rush of joy nearly knocked her off her feet.

Her arms were around his neck and she did not remember putting them there. She did not recall crossing the three feet between them, for that matter, or abandoning her cup-o-booze to the mercy of the sidewalk, and yet, these were events that appeared to have transpired. Willow hugged him as she had never hugged anyone, save perhaps friends that had previously been more dead than alive. His grip was familiar and strong and for it she rejoiced; it had been so long since she had belonged anywhere. Everything else had changed, but not Oz. Not his embrace.

"Are you real?" Willow mumbled into his shoulder. She knew the truth, but her rational mind had difficulty accepting it. She was in Bucharest for god's sake. Oz shook with silent mirth.

"I'm real. Are you real?"

"Think so. Who knows, though."

They stood in silence for a while, holding up traffic as they clung to one another. Willow let herself stop thinking all together, silencing her own questions and speculations and theories in favor of enjoying the closeness. He carried the strange new scents of herbs and incense and travel, but below that was the same musky Oz-smell that she somehow still remembered. He still couldn't be bothered to shave regularly, the lazy creature, and his stubble scratched at her cheek. For a single, strange moment, the years fell away and they were children again, frightened, hopeful and free. Glory. Glory be.

But, like all wondrous things, it couldn't last. Reluctantly, the pair separated and stepped back to inspect each other. Years had definitely passed, and they were no longer children. It showed.

"What are you _doing_ here?" Willow asked at last. Breaking the silence had always fallen to her.

The edges of Oz's mouth made as if they intended to turn upwards. He was still a bit spartan with expression. "Staring at you, mostly."

"Well, yes," she agreed, "you're definitely doing some of that, but what were you doing before the staring? You know. In Bucharest."

"Favor to a friend. There's a 14-year-old girl in the city that, uh, sometimes becomes... fuzzy and agitated. I'm here to help her get it under control."

Willow nodded. That made sense. She had always expected him to end up doing something like that.

"How'd you know I was here?" she wondered, though she suspected she already knew the answer. Oz's smile warmed a little, which confirmed it.

"Caught your scent in the street."

So he still remembered it.

He gestured awkwardly to the table Willow had been approaching and she nodded, seizing a chair. They sat across from each other, but the sunset, at the zenith of its power, hit him in the face and obscured his features. No matter. His energy was as familiar as her own, and it rolled over her in waves.

"So what are _you _doing in Bucharest?" he asked. Willow smiled.

"Official Scooby Gang business. I'm picking up some rare books that might be useful. Ancient knowledge and all that."

Oz nodded sagely. "Your average work trip."

"Tax deductible and everything."

"What, really?"

For all that had changed, it was easy to pick back up again. Maybe she would have felt more conflicted if things were more stable, but as it was, Willow was just pleased to see a friendly face. One that had never tried to kill her, even. (Not directly, anyway.) Big bonus right there.

Not knowing what else to do, they caught up. Oz was very quiet as she related the final events of Sunnydale history, face unreadable. He had cobbled together bits and pieces, but much of it had been a mystery, and Willow wondered if it would have been better for it to stay that way. It felt good to unload, to commiserate, but maybe the town should have remained whole in someone's memory. Now it was lost.

"You guys went through a lot," he remarked. Willow nodded. It was the grand return of Captain Understatement.

"So what about you? Tell me what Oz has been up to in the past six years."

Oz smiled a little, dropping his gaze. "Six years, huh? Seems impossible."

It really did.

"I've been up to less than you have. I still live in Tibet, for the most part. There's a monastery there that has opened its gates to supernatural folks seeking control. I travel some, but mostly just to help other people with my condition. I run a sort of rehab program, I guess. Zen principles as applied to not turning into a hairy beast." He had never been one to fidget, but Willow wished he would. His stillness was unnerving. "So... are you still with-"

"No." It came out a little more sharply than Willow had intended. "No. She... casualty of our lifestyle, I guess. She's gone."

"Oh." Oz's silence deepened. He didn't ask for clarification, and Willow didn't offer any. "God, Will. I'm sorry."

She knew he meant it. That meant a lot.

"What about you? Have you settled down yet?"

A head shake. "No. No, I never quite got there. Still young, though."

Willow smiled. "I guess so. I mean, I know, logically, I'm still young? Really young. Like, a couple years out of college young. But it doesn't feel that way. Twenty-three feels ancient."

"I know what you mean," he mused. "It's like I've already lived a dozen lifetimes. Twenty-four is just decrepit."

"Might as well give it up."

"Time to find a nursing home."

"I hear there are some good ones in Sweden."

"Oh, yeah. They have great health care."

Willow shivered. The dark was getting deeper and chill was setting in. Still, she wanted to linger. She wanted to freeze time itself, in fact. She briefly wondered if she could whip up a spell on the fly, but snapped herself out of it with some mental scolding. Bad witch. We don't think that way anymore. Bad.

The pair fell quiet. A crossroad was approaching, and a decision needed to be made. It worried Willow, the though of all the possibilities, all the potential futures that could be lost by one choice or the other. She had seen too many alternate realities not to be bothered by this sort of thing. How could she know what was right anymore? She barely knew which was was up.

"I missed you," Oz said at last. "Never stopped."

Warmth spread through Willow. "I know," she murmured. "I know. Me too."

"Really?"

"Of course." She reached across the little table and slipped her hand over his; he squeezed her fingers reverently. "You're part of me. Remember?"

"I remember everything."

So did she.

"Do you want a hand?" Willow asked suddenly, cursing her presumption with every syllable. "I mean, I know it's a wolfy thing and I totally understand if it's private, but maybe I could come up with something to help that girl deal with the changes until you can train her and stuff. Make it a little easier on her. If you want."

Oz's eyebrows raised considerably. "You can do that now?"

"I don't know. Maybe. I can do lots of things now." Most of which he would never hear about, if Willow had her way. "Won't know unless I try."

"Well... yeah, that would be great. I know the family would be really grateful. If you've got the spare time."

"I have to pick up the books from our source early tomorrow, but I've definitely got time for an old friend." She'd make the time.

They shared a smile. Decision made. Willow hoped it was the right one. She was now a big believer in trusting the will of the universe, though, and if it was time for their paths to cross again, she wasn't going to run from it. Running never worked out very well. And, ultimately, it was Oz. _Oz. _

"Where are you staying?" he asked.

"Hotel Christina, up by the City Center. What about you?"

"With friends, down in Titan."

Her nose wrinkled in thought. "That's a neighborhood, right?"

"Right. South of here, in Sector 3."

"I love it when cities are divided into sectors. It's like being in a sci-fi movie."

Oz melted into a grin. Just like that, everything was okay between them. Distant pain remained distant. Willow could have danced.

"I was going to go see the girl and evaluate the situation tomorrow. Obviously, it would be best if she could stay here with her family, but she might need to spend some time at the monastery. We just had a new moon, though, so we've got some time," he explained. Willow's head bobbed in confirmation.

"Works for me. I'll check my books tonight and see if I can't come up with anything clever."

Oz returned the nod. They spend a moment regarding each other before a light bulb flashed over Willow's head, and she turned to her purse to find a slip of paper.

"Call me at this number when you're ready to go," she instructed. "I should be done by nine or ten, and I always pick up." Their fingers brushed as Oz accepted it. Ancient shyness rippled through her.

"I'll do that." His eyes were light and happy. "Thanks."

For lack of anything else to do, perhaps not wanting the moment to grow awkward, they stood to part. One more hug was in order, and Willow savored it. There was something grounding about Oz. Something immutable and permanent. She hadn't realized how badly she'd needed it. Willow was fresh out of anchors.

"I'd offer to walk you back because the streets can be dangerous, but... I think that might be a little insulting," Oz remarked. Willow snorted. He was right. "So. I guess I'll just say good night."

She smiled. "Good night."

Their fingertips were the last thing to separate.

The city Willow had been contemplating less than an hour earlier seemed entirely different. The streets were still dark and twisty and bustling along, but they seemed friendlier now. Some of the strangeness had thinned. To her surprise and pleasure, she felt a little more like herself – her old self, the person she'd been before all the fear and loss had ravaged her. Real Willow. Willow-Willow. She'd missed that version of herself as much as she'd missed Oz.

And she had missed him. She'd always known she would. Beyond the whole first love factor, she'd missed him as a person. As a best friend. She missed his company and his presence. Their lives were more complicated now, certainly, and it was hard to get a grip on the situation with so much distance between them, but... love doesn't just evaporate as the years go by. Not even as new loves come and go. It changes shape, but it doesn't decay. In as violent a world as Willow lived, anything good was welcome. So welcome.

Passing through the grandness of her hotel and slipping into her room, Willow dropped her bag, draped herself across a luxurious bed and sighed. She so loved creature comfort. For a moment, the witch allowed herself to close her eyes and simply be. She would have to try and make sense of things soon, but for now, it was enough to feel it all rolling over her.

When she did move, she dug for her phone. Giles answered on the second ring.

"Hey, I need a favor."

"Willow? Is everything alright?" London wasn't that far away, really, but his voice crackled with the distance. Spotty Romanian reception.

"Yeah, everything's fine. Can you check my books for a suppression spell? Something I can turn into a charm, maybe."

"Whatever for?"

Willow's mouth opened to respond, but she hesitated. She didn't know what to make of it all yet, and not for the first time, she found she had something she wasn't ready to share. Not yet.

"Nothing big," she finally responded. "Just a little side project. Can you?"

"Well, yes. Certainly. I can email you the results, if you like." Several years behind the curve, Giles was just now coming to terms with the fact that computers were not likely to go away.

"That would be super great. Like, a paragon of greatness. Thanks."

"Always."

She hung up, dropped the phone and turned her attention to the ceiling. Bucharest was so beautiful.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

A/N: So here's the thing about this piece. I haven't written something this way in a long, long time. You know, where you write the chapters out and post them as you go? This doesn't give me much room to retcon the earlier chapters, so I can tell you right now, there are going to be continuity errors. Maybe I'll go back and fix everything up when I'm done with the story as a whole, but for now, the concept is evolving really rapidly for me, and I'm just gonna go with it. Spot me a little patience and I'll love you folks forever and ever. And now... a story!

* * *

It was a lovely morning for illicit transactions.

Willow had never been very good at dressing like a badass, her veiny self having more or less ruined it for everyone. Mystical flowy earth mother, yes. Badass, no. So she found herself feeling a tad silly, skulking around known crime syndicates in a fluffy sweater and old jeans. It was nippy out, though, and if she found herself running from something awful and toothy, all the better to be comfortable. Ah well.

Every city has its dirty districts and demon haunts. Bucharest, being so old and prone to serious outbreaks of impossible things, had a few more than normal. It was almost like home that way. Willow sat at a corner table in a filthy, back-alley bar, absently playing with the flame of one of the establishment's decorative candles. Flame gets big. Flame gets little. She tried turning it blue, then green, then pink. By the time she had it sparking, the bartender was staring with bemusement.

She stopped.

Just like a demon to be late to his own deal. Or, well, the skeevy sort of demon, anyway. Willow didn't want to be a bigot. She was sure there were some well-mannered, punctual denizens of hell running around out there somewhere. What most people don't consider is that 8 AM is actually the illicit, up too late and up to no good time of day for things that spend the night going bump. Got something to hide from the rest of the underworld? Get it done at the crack of dawn. It left Willow sleepy.

"Scuse me." She waved a little, flagging down the barkeep's attention. "Hi. Sorry. Is there any way I could get a cup of coffee?"

"Ver cer iertare, domnisoara?" He blinked at Willow, who silently cursed the Romance languages.

"Coffee," she said, enunciating carefully. She mimed drinking a cup of hot liquid, and the barkeep lit up. He plucked a bottle of wine from the back wall and held it up to his only customer, looking at her expectantly. Willow's face fell. 8 AM. It was 8 AM. Why was there so much booze in this city?

"Are the local customs not translating well?"

Willow glanced up. "Oh, nice of you to show up," she huffed. "You know, punctuality is the cornerstone of a healthy business relationship."

"Huff and puff, little witch." Crowley was your average low-level demon. Cherry red skin twisted around his form in off-setting ways, cute little horns curled out around his ears and a cheap suit trying to pass as an expensive suit hung awkwardly off the angles of his frame. He was a horrible, cowardly, simpering thing, more interested in turning a profit than anything particularly demonic, but the upshot was that he was more irksome than threatening. Willow sighed and shook her head. She had things to do.

"Got some books for me to look at?" she asked. Crowley pulled up a seat at her table, flapping his hands in what Willow assumed was a request for silence.

"Do you just go around announcing your business to the whole world?" he hissed.

"Only when I'm in the mood to share. I did very well in preschool." Willow offered the creature a sunny smile. "Come on. Cough it up."

Crowley uttered a litany of curses in an ancient tongue and dug about in his magical bigger-on-the-inside Doctor Who pockets. Willow had no idea what half-wit sorcerer had willingly enchanted something for this lamentable thing, but it proved both a blessing and a curse. He was a horrible thief, but good at getting away with it and not smart enough to keep his hands to himself around more ancient, deeply magical beings than himself. Hence, a supplier.

"Here." He produced a stack of weathered tomes and shot Willow a 'so there' look. "Finest merchandise this side of the Danube."

"Where'd you find them?" Willow wondered. She reached for a book but found her hand being slapped away. The look Willow gave him would have frozen the blood in his veins, had he any blood. The demon then pushed the stack cautiously towards her. Wisely so.

"South of here," was Crowley's response. "That's all I'm gonna say."

Willow was skimming the aged pages with nervous delicacy. It felt like they might disintegrate in her hands. "I don't recognize the language," she murmured. "It's, like, Greeky, but not. Phrygian, maybe?"

Crowley shrugged. "Don't know, don't care. They're plenty old, though. Want 'em?"

They had once been beautiful, she suspected, but the fading was too considerable to say that now. Much of the ink was either sun bleached or had simply worn away. The illustrations, of which there were plenty, were crude, clinical, but sort of lovely in a Dark Ages sort of way. They mostly depicted toothy, hairy, drooly things. Beasties. Hm. "This one looks like some kind of bestiary," she said to herself. "Summoning guide, maybe?"

"Hey, Red, I'm not running a lending library here," the demon snapped. Willow's eyes produced a mighty roll. "You remember my rate, yes?"

Willow snapped open her cell phone, punched in a short text and held it up for Crowley to see. "The cash'll be in your account in half an hour, grumpypants."

"How do I know your buddies aren't gonna stiff me?"

Willow Rosenberg, the most powerful witch alive, raised her eyebrows at the bumbling underworld nobody. Half a heartbeat passed before he nodded politely, turned tail and scampered away.

She snickered. It was still sorta novel that she could get away with spooking bad guys into submission. It stopped working as soon as you got to know the girl, of course, but intimidation was a neat trick when dealing with oogidy boogidies more familiar with her reputation than her general Willowness. She gathered up the group's newest acquisitions and nestled them in her bag. Pretty good score, if she did say so herself.

She'd have to get them to Giles, though. He'd figure out what language it was. Normally Willow could at least place the origin, if not read a little of it. Studying dead languages was a common pastime for the mystically inclined. Completely strange volumes were so unusual to her nowadays.

The endless chase for knowledge and resources was beginning to tucker Willow out. It was nice, of course, having an evil-slaying army of hundreds to draw upon, but staying on top of it all had not grown any less incomprehensible with time. And it seemed no matter how powerful they became, an equivalent darkness always rose to go toe to toe with their forces. When the time had finally come for preemptive preparation, it changed them. The Scoobies. It changed the way they fought. The way they thought. The way they lived. O, brave new world, that has such monsters in it.

But Slayerette nonsense aside, Willow had – well, maybe not bigger, but other, equally large fish to fry. She slipped out of the city's demonic danger zone, abnormally still and sleepy in the early hour, as casually as if she were out for a stroll. The area was a bit out of the way from her hotel, but all the better; the fewer cranky monsters that pieced together the business of the Slayer's inner circle, the less fuss all around.

Her phone rang as she was racing to catch the train uptown; Willow nearly tripped in response. Fear blew through the witch. Sweet, senseless, illogical fear. Best kind.

"H-hello?"

"So this morning I woke up, had some bacon, took a shower and transferred huge sums of money to a secret, offshore, Swiss bank account in exchange for dangerous artifacts of terrible power. Plus I have an eye patch. I'm basically a Bond villain now."

Willow almost groaned. False alarm.

"You got out okay, right?"

"Yeah, Xander. I'm fine. All limbs still attached." Willow ran a hand through her hair, trying to relax. She plunked herself down on an empty seat on the train and fixed her eyes on the city skyline. "Thanks."

"No problemo, pretty lady." Xander sounded chipper. Things must have been running pretty smoothly in Scotland. "What'd you end up with?"

"Not sure. Might be something, might be nothing. I can't even figure out what language they're in or where they came from. I figured I'd FedEx them to Giles and let him have at it. Does FedEx service the lower Balkans?"

"Hm. Federal Express. You know, I'm betting not."

Willow snapped. Damn.

"Just bring them with you. Hop the next train to Madrid and I'll pick you up. S'easier than getting ancient tomes through customs." Xander liked to point out the obvious. Normally Willow would agree, but.

"I can't just yet. I figured I'd just-"

"You can't?" Uh oh. Serious voice. "Why not? What's wrong?"

"Nothing! I don't think. Nothing big, anyway. Something might be up, but it's hard to say yet. Just murmurs. I'm going to check it out before skedaddling on back, okay?" Over the years, Will had become more adept at keeping her voice level, but it would never be her strong suit. Thank god it was easier over the phone.

"If you're sure." Xander didn't sound convinced, but he knew better than to interfere with Willow's affairs. "Be careful while you're out there. If you need backup for any reason, just call. We can have a squad out there in six hours."

She stepped off the train and melted into the crowd, raising her voice to be heard over the din. "I will. I promise. Send Dawn my love."

"Signed, sealed and delivered."

Back to base with Willow. She had work to do. Busy busy busy. She stopped at the concierge desk in the lobby of her hotel, and after some artful miming, managed to locate an English speaking staff member with whom to arrange some emergency mailing services. The sooner Giles got his hands on the new pieces, the better. They could be anything. The curiosity, it was killing her.

Sorta.

It _was_ pretty odd. And Willow did have a compulsive need to understand things. Especially old, magical things. It was sort of a defining trait. It wasn't like she was looking for a distraction from certain strange events or anything. No sir.

She leaned on the door to her room as she kicked it closed and exhaled. Truth was, she really wasn't thinking about the elephant in the room. She couldn't. Willow had woken that morning with the memory of the previous day tangled around her like a dream, and she couldn't tell if it was or not. It didn't seem real. There was no proof it had happened. Hadn't she entertained similar daydreams dozens of times? Tara visited her unconscious mind all the time, and that usually seemed real. How was this any different?

And if it had happened, well. She didn't begin to know what to think. Turning around to see Oz hadn't seemed odd at the time, but morning air had brought a clarity Willow hadn't found in the Romanian twilight. The concept was freshly impossible now. Freshly terrifying.

Willow gave her head a bracing shake. Like so many things in life, the answer was a healthy work ethic. If she was going to hang out in a strange city waiting for hallucinations to call, she might as well do something useful in the meantime. Out came the books and the laptop shortly behind them. Time to research.

She knew full well it wasn't Greek, despite the similarities. The upshot of that were the dozens and dozens of languages, most dead and buried, that shared Grecian markers. That narrowed the playing field considerably. Of course, she didn't speak any of those either, but she did know that Greek influence was common throughout eastern Europe. It would have been helpful if Crowley had been willing to share more on their region of origin, she thought.

South, he had said. How south? Giurgiu south or Bulgaria south? Above or below the equator south? 'South' was really no help at all, come to think of it. With a sigh, Willow started with the basics. This area of Romania had been divided up by Alexander the Conqueror, but was more or less culturally unified before that. Maybe-

Her phone rang. Deep into a research trance, Willow answered automatically. "Yeah?"

"Hey."

Willow's daydreams became abruptly real again.

"Hey," she squeaked. "Hey. Morning."

"Feel like checking on some garden variety paranormal happenings?" Oz asked. She could almost see him standing there, shoulders cocked, free hand in his pocket. He was masking hesitation with nonchalance. Wonderful, unshifting Oz.

"Totally. Yes. Sounds like fun." Kinda.

"Total funfest. Hotel Christina, right?"

She nodded. When Oz didn't respond, not having developed telepathy, she verbally confirmed it.

"Meet you in the lobby in ten?"

"Sure. That'll work."

"Okay then."

"Right."

Smooth, Willow. Very sophisticated. Elegant conversation skills. She huffed at herself and repacked her bag for the day ahead. One magical survival kit. Supplies for one suppression charm. One powder compact in natural ivory. Check, check and check.

He was waiting for her by the time she got downstairs. Standing there, doing the Oz thing. He was leaning against a wall and looking contemplatively into space, as he tended to do. Willow was struck by the surreality of the situation.

She offered a wave and a smile as she approached. Oz blinked, ripped from his reverie, saw Will the smile and raised her a hot drink. "Actual coffee," he explained. "To make up for the one you jettisoned. Feel like I mighta had something to do with its demise."

"I probably wouldn'ta finished it anyway," Willow assured him. "It was all boozy and stuff. Not that I have anything against the boozy stuff, but, you know, I like some warning."

"Yeahhh, that'll happen. I'd stay clear of the frozen desserts."

At long last. Real coffee. She didn't know where he got it, and she didn't care. It was sweet and bitter and laced with cinnamon, exactly as she liked it. Oz remembered her coffee order. There was something steadying in that one, tiny detail.

"Did you get your – you know?" He asked. Midway through a gulp, Willow nodded.

"Yeah. It went pretty smoothly. No surprises, at least, which is how we like it these days."

It was back to seeming normal. Standing there, in a patch of sunlight with her ex of a million years ago, next to some massive potted fern. Apparently Will only found the whole situation bizarre when she was alone, because at the moment, it felt completely natural. Bouncing between stages of disorientation like this couldn't possibly be healthy, she thought.

They had fallen into contemplative silence again. Dangerous territory. They'd be having none of that. So Willow cleared her throat and blundered on. "So," she began, "where are we headed?"

"Dristor. District in Sector 4." Oz, too, was all business. "It's sort of a drive."

Willow shrugged. "Doesn't bother me."

He nodded. Together they turned to the revolving glass door and filed out, one after another, into the street. Oz hailed them a cab to pile into, which was a delightful experience. Willow found herself at the far end of the seat, pressed against the window, while her new (old?) companion glued himself to the opposite side. There was a wide ocean of cheap pleather upholstery dividing them. Behold, the natural order.

Oz and the cabbie exchanged several phrases in Romanian (directions, Willow assumed) and off they went. Traffic was thick. Mid-morning in the business district, she supposed. Willow let her eyes linger on the window to aid in ignoring the awkward silence, but within minutes, it was gnawing at her. She just wasn't the stoic type. Regrettably.

When she turned, Oz was staring at her. He deliberately held her gaze a beat before gracefully looking away. Still intense. Got it.

"So... you speak Romanian now?" She had to fill the silence with something.

"A little." Oz leaned back. He was relaxing almost imperceptibly, but Willow knew. "Enough to get by. I speak bits and pieces of six or seven languages now, I guess. I pick it up pretty quickly."

Willow followed his lead and relaxed into a slight slump. "Well, you are practically a genius," she observed. The half smiles they shot each other counted as one whole comfortable expression, Will was fairly certain.

She saw him more clearly by the light of day. He appeared more as the man he was, less the one she remembered. The fella she had known so well had always sported the uniform of the disaffected American youth, and it was strange to see him clad differently. He still sported the (unintentionally hilarious) sheepskin jacket he'd been wearing half a decade earlier, but under it was a coarse linen shirt that put Willow in the mind of humble shepherds in distant villages. The battered jeans were a little too long for him, but that was normal. His hair was longer and.. well, floppier. She supposed there weren't a lot of available hair products in Tibetan monastaries. A line of prayer beads encircled his right hand, but he'd been sporting a set the last time they'd spoken. Part of the suppression. In a moment of absurdity, Willow wondered if he still played guitar. Like, with a cute little portable amp in the high Himalayas, jamming away.

"You look so different." The words were out of Willow's mouth before she had a chance to consider them. She winced inwardly. "I mean, you still look like you and all, just, you plus some time away. I like the new look, though! The whole bohemian thing? It works on you."

"See, that's funny," Oz responded, "because I was just thinking the same thing."

"What, really?" Willow glanced down at herself. She knew she had changed in some violent ways, but she wasn't sure how visible it was.

"Well, yeah. I mean, I guess I saw a glimpse of it in the, like, thirty seconds of our last reunion, but you're all..." he gestured.

"I'm all?"

"You know how last time, you said it was weird how I'd been all over the world while you were in Sunnydale?" Willow nodded. "It's like that. But with you."

"But you've been traveling and seeing big stuff much longer than I have-"

Oz shook his head. His expression had a fondness to it. "Nah. I get the feeling you've seen and done a lot more than you could have told me last night. It's like you're just... you're light years away from the goofball in the Eskimo costume."

That took Willow a minute. "Wait – you saw that? When did you see that?"

He grinned. "That's the you I always see in my memory."

"Fuzzy Eskimo Willow?" She was horrified.

"Goofball Willow," he clarified.

"Well – well I always think of you as monkey guy," Willow replied in lieu of a proper comeback.

"Monkey guy?"

"Yeah, you know. All monkeys are French?"

To her surprise, Oz barked a laugh loud enough to startle the driver. It sounded strange and natural at the same time. Willow smiled in spite of herself.

"Now that was a lifetime ago," he observed. The witch had to agree. "Did you come up with anything last night?"

"Oh!" Willow could have smacked herself. "Yeah, I think I've got something useful. This one time, last year? There was a rash of bonded possessions in the Slayer ranks, and we had to keep them all calm and human-ish for this six-hour mass exorcism, so I modified a suppression spell to split their natures and lock the dangerous side down. I think I can scale it back and imbue a physical conduit with the charm. As long as the girl keeps the object on her body, she shouldn't be able to change."

Oz's eyebrows knitted together. "Seriously? That simple?"

"Well, it's not simple, exactly, and she's – werewolves aren't possessed or anything. Just. Furry."

"Thank you for that distinction."

Willow flashed him a sheepish smile. "So it might be different. I don't know what the long-term effects would be. It's more like a band-aid than a cure."

"No, I totally agree. She's going to have to deal with it. There aren't any shortcuts to accepting the fact that you're two-natured."

"Two-natured?"

Oz nodded. She noticed that his thumb was absently playing with the beads wrapped around his hand. "Weres. Kind of the politically correct term, I guess."

"I do like being correct," Willow mused. "I guess you've got it all under control and stuff now?'

"Mm. It's a process, but yeah. I know myself pretty well now." He offered her a heavy-lidded smile. His comfortable smile. "The trick is not shutting part of yourself out or acting like it's evil. Weres have to accept what they are and let the furry part out when it's right. I can control the change completely at will now."

Willow's eyes lit up. "Really? Like, any time you want, no moonlight necessary?"

"It's easier around the full moon. That's when I'm strongest. But yep. Whenever I want. Or need."

"Do you, like, fight crime?" He stared at her a moment. Willow blinked. Then coughed. "Right," she mused, "probably not a lot of crime in a Buddhist monastery. Dumb question."

Oz shook his head in something Willow couldn't place – fondness? Amusement? Ah well. The rest of the ride passed in relative silence, but it was a more comfortable, bearable sort and Willow didn't mind. She had always appreciated the way Oz could simply be. No chatter necessary. It helped her slow down a little herself. They passed out of the developed inner-city and into the cheaper tenements, lined by narrow streets of torn up pavement and dilapidated apartment units. The ethnic division changed sharply in these slums. The city's nicer areas were primarily populated by Romanian nationals, but the ghettos were dominated by poverty-stricken Romani clans and Asian immigrants. It reminded Willow that much of the world still didn't add up right. Bothersome.

When the cab rolled to a stop, they were sitting beside one of the ragged high rises that looked as if it has weathered a war or two. Oz paid the man and they slipped out without a word. Small knots of children were playing here and there, but the area was curiously devoid of life otherwise. No flowers, no grass. No pedestrians and very few cars. Willow felt watched, in a people peeking out of shaded windows kind of way, but she shook it off. Paranoia wasn't going to help anyone today.

Oz took the lead and she followed up a flight of concrete stairs. The plaster was peeling off the walls. It was silly to feel nervous – God knows Willow was capable of taking care of herself – but the place put her on edge. Something wasn't right.

Her friend rapped gently at a weathered door. There was muffled movement inside, and after a long couple of minutes, it creaked open a few inches, pulling the chain taut. A pair of mistrustful eyes peered out peered out at them.

"Hi." Oz's voice was low and soft. "Daniel Osbourne. Friend of Florin Popa?"

"Who is with you?" It was a male's voice, deep and heavily accented. Even through the suspicion, Willow could hear it dripping with fear.

"My friend, Willow. A witch." The witch in question offered a waggle-fingered wave. "She might be able to help."

There was a moment of hesitation, but the door slid shut, clicked as it was unchained and slid open again. Just wide enough for them to duck through sideways, she noticed. Folks out here sure were jumpy.

Willow found herself in a dingy, two room apartment as dark as night. She blinked. Blankets had been hung over the only window; the effect was disorienting, unnatural darkness. Candles, four or five of them strategically placed, were the only source of illumination. The air was heady with incense, but it wasn't a blend she could place. Furniture was sparse and threadbare and the walls were lined with a considerable collection of crucifixes. It was like a bunker for the vampire apocalypse. The man who had answered the door was short and paunchy, beady-eyed and nervous, and a soft choking sound led Will's attention to the huddled form of an elderly woman sobbing in the corner. Cheery.

Short and paunchy was wringing his hands. "You can help my daughter? Yes?"

Oz nodded. "Yes. I think so. Everything's going to be okay, Mr. Cuza." He was careful to keep his tone even and comforting. It didn't appear to help, but points for effort.

"She is cursed!" he moaned. "She has been – she is lost to God. Help her."

"Where is she?"

Mr. Cuza led the pair across the apartment to the far bedroom and nodded. Oz knocked tentatively. A line of rapid, angry Romanian erupted from inside; the old woman's sobbing intensified. Oz and Willow shared a glance. Furious teenagers. What would an adventure be without them?

Swearing to himself (naughty words sound the same in every language,) Mr. Cuza flung the door open himself, much to the chagrin of the girl inside. He bellowed at her, she bellowed back, angry gestures all around. Oz and Willow instinctively inched away. There was something almost a touch absurd in the dramatics. The matriarch in the corner, meanwhile, rose to shriek at the pair of them and the teenager uttered something very rude in response, judging by the shocked silence. Then more shouting.

"What's going on?" Willow whispered.

"Just your average hysterical family smackdown," Oz muttered back.

"Good to know some things cross cultural barriers."

"We're all the same under our parents' roofs." He pulled Willow out of the firing zone as the weregirl launched a jewelry box at her father's head.

Ten minutes later, the pair were standing awkwardly in the narrow bedroom, pointedly ignoring the old woman's horrible hiccuping weeping as it echoed through the unit. The subject of their little field trip sat on her bed, radiating fury and confusion and staring at her toes.

"These people help you, Elena," Mr. Cuza was saying. "They fix you."

The girl shot back something in Romanian and turned her gaze defiantly towards the strangers in the room. "I can't be fixed," she growled. "Everyone's tried. Go away."

Mr. Cuza's mouth opened in a retort that would surely start the rumpus back up, but Oz held his hands up. "Let us talk to her, maybe."

"Yeah!" Willow cut in. "Yes. Give us a minute?"

The paunchy little man looked back and forth between his daughter and his guests, simmering with fear and anger that had no where to go, but he withdrew. Willow couldn't blame him. It was a scary situation. He made to shut the door behind him, but carefully left it open a few inches. She couldn't blame him for that, either.

The girl herself broke Willow's heart. She was deep into the gangly part of puberty, all arms and legs, and currently sat tucked into herself as if afraid to move. Insecurity was another thing Will didn't need to translate. Thick black hair was gathered into a single braid the brushed the base of her spine. She was dark, like her father, and she boasted the thickest eyelashes Willow had ever seen. She'd be a beauty when she grew up.

"Your English is amazing," Willow remarked, mostly for lack of anything else to say. Elena made a 'harrumph' sound.

"Mama made me learn," she muttered. "When I was little."

"Sounds like she wanted to give you a nice future," Willow observed. "With, you know. The possibilities and all."

Elena kept her eyes fixed on the floor.

"My name's Willow. This is Oz." Oz himself was hanging back, letting Will take the lead on the whole establishing trust thing. He waved when introduced, though.

"Are you priests?" the girl asked. "You don't look like priests."

"Nope," Oz responded. "No priests here."

"Jewish," Will interjected.

"So... who are you? Why are you here?"

Willow pulled up a seat on the floor at Elena's feet, offering her warmest smile. "Well. We're here to help. Oz is just like you."

Elena's eyes squinted, trying to follow. "You're a monster?"

Oz shook his head. Willow knew him well enough to read sadness behind the gentle expression. "I'm not a monster. And neither are you." He sat beside Willow. "We're two-natured, Elena. Werewolves."

The girl stared at him for a moment, struggling to keep her face blank, before dissolving into tears. Will reached up to stroke her back as a mother might, chest twisting. "Hey, it's okay," she cooed. "Werewolves aren't monsters. I've seen lots of monsters, and Oz is one of the greatest people I know, hands down."

"Are you too?" Elena choked through the sobs. Willow shook her head.

"I'm a witch."

Elena's head snapped up. Her eyes were wide with fear. "Witches are the emissaries of the Devil," she managed through trembling lips.

"What? Oh, no, honey, no, I'm a good witch. I won't hurt you," Willow promised in as soothing a voice as she could manage. "No pacts with Satan or anything. I swear."

"A friend of your father's asked us to come and help you," Oz explained. Elena trembled, but managed to stay calm. He had that effect on people. Especially girls. "With the changes."

"You can make them stop?" The girl breathed. Oz's head shook.

"Not entirely. But we can help you control them. Help you to make sense of it. Okay?"

"I don't want to hurt anyone," she whispered. "Papa says... they say I'm cursed. I'm wrong. I don't want to hurt anyone."

Willow shifted herself onto the bed and wrapped her arms around the girl. To her surprise, Elena didn't pull away. The poor thing was so desperately alone. "You aren't wrong. And you won't hurt anyone. We're super good at this sort of thing."

"The best," Oz agreed.

After a few moments of sniffles and trembles, Elena nodded. She was in.

"What do we do?" she asked.

Oz and Willow exchanged a silent set of glances. He nodded. "Well," Willow started, "Oz is going to teach you how to control the changes, but that's very difficult. It'll take a while. So in the meantime, I'm going to make you a nice, safe, totally not evil at all little charm that will keep you human on the full moon."

"Full moon?" Elena frowned. "Just the full moon?"

"Yeah. You know, the three nights you change?"

"Three?"

The trio was trading frowns and furrowed eyebrows as confusion settled over them.

"You don't change when the moon is full?" Oz asked slowly.

"I change every night. You don't?"

Oz and Willow locked eyes.

Well.

Shit.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

A/N: Man, I am just a machine right now. Because I'm churning material out so quickly, there might be some errors I didn't catch in the first or second proof, but I'll make sure to correct them as they surface. Also, a big piece is really unusual for me, and I'm not very practiced at constructing larger narratives, so let me know how I'm doing! Constructive criticism is always welcome. Please and thank you!

* * *

Time for an emergency family meeting.

All five of them sat in the Cuza's darkened living room. Silent. Except for Gramma Cuza, of course, who seemed to have no off switch in the huddling in a weepy ball department. It wasn't terribly helpful, but everyone copes differently.

Willow and Oz were perched on the couch. Elena sat sullenly in a dilapidated wicker chair and her father paced back and forth, unable to speak. Willow was pursing her lips while Oz pinched the bridge of his nose. It took an awful lot for the expressionless wonder to display any outward sign of frustration, which said a lot about the situation at hand. Namely, that it sucked.

Maybe Bucharest was on a Hellmouth. Willow wondered absently if they could develop some sort of mapping program. It'd be really helpful to know when and where they could expect this sort of thing to crop up, she figured.

"Tell me again," Oz said.

"She change every night," Mr. Cuza muttered, as wild and directionless as a madman. "When light touch her. She change. She fight. Not my little girl."

"Light. The moonlight?"

The poor man nodded.

"That explains the blankets on the windows," Willow mused, mostly to herself. Mr. Cuza shot her a sharp look and the witch fell silent. Not a good time for stating the obvious, she supposed.

"And this started three weeks ago?" Oz continued.

"Three week. She go missing in the night, come home bloody. Wild. Sun set, demon take her."

Oz turned his attention to Elena herself. "And nothing bit you? No animals or people?"

The girl's head shook slowly. "I would remember that."

"Yeah, probably," Oz agreed. He lapsed into silence, turning the matter over in his head. This situation was much more serious than anything he had been prepared to deal with.

"There was..." Elena began after a few moments. All heads in the room turned to look at her. "It was not a bite or... A few weeks ago, there was something strange. I was on my way home, and I don't think anything happened, but there is a – what do you call it?" She closed her eyes, looking for the right word. "Patch. Patch of time missing."

"Missing?" Willow echoed.

"Memory. Missing memory. I woke up at home. Hours later."

Oz sighed. It was less a sigh than a heavy expulsion of air, really. A sign of the overwhelmed. This was bad.

"Do you have any way of restraining Elena when she changes?" he asked the girl's father. Mr. Cuza looked sick.

"Restraining?"

"Yeah. Like. A cage? Or chains."

Gramma Cuza's wailing intensified. Fascinating, as Willow was fairly certain she didn't speak a word of English.

"Nothing hold her," the older man was babbling. "We try keep her inside. Away from window. Away from light."

"And that keeps her from changing?"

"Mostly," Elena murmured.

Oz looked over to his redheaded companion. Gnawing her bottom lip, eyes distant with thought, she shrugged. Willow had nothing.

"Excuse us a moment," Oz announced to the room at large. He rose, and Willow followed suit. Without another word, the pair slipped out of the Cuza home and shut the front door behind them. A conference was in order.

"You ever heard of anything like this?" he asked, once safely out of earshot.

"No," Willow confessed. "Never. Transmuting a creature's nature back and forth is really, really difficult. It requires a tremendous amount of magical energy each time. You remember Amy?"

"Still a rat?"

"Well, no, kind of a homicidal sorceress who wants to annihilate us all, but it took me, like, three years to change her back and that couldn't have helped much." They were pacing the small, barren courtyard outside the tenement, lacking any other options. "This is totally new to me. What about you?"

"I didn't even know variations of the change existed," he muttered. "Doesn't make sense. She changes when the light... could it be a curse?"

"It'd have to be a mighty powerful one, to keep her shifting back and forth every night. Might explain the convenient amnesia, though. Memory modification spells are easy enough." Willow gnawed at her thumbnail. The smart thing to do would be to call Giles or Xander or even Andrew and tap into some of their organization's resources, but the resulting fuss might do more harm than good. It was hard to say with so little to go on. "You know more about this than I do. Where do we start?"

Oz's hands were stuffed into his pockets. His body language locked down when he didn't know what to think. "If she's dangerous, we can't let her change. But I need to see the change to know if she's wolfkin or not."

"Kinda makes you miss the old cage in the library, huh?" Willow mused. "Simpler, mustier times."

Oz smiled. Couldn't be helped.

"Do you think you can work that spell of yours today?" he asked. "Before sundown. I'd like to buy some time before uprooting her, but-"

"But we can't just let her run around eviscerating people, yeah," Willow agreed. "I think I can pull it off this afternoon. I don't know how effective it'll be, since we don't know what's going on. If it is a possession, though, I know it'll hold."

"Cool. Okay. That's something. I'll have to get her out of the city one way or another after that."

Will nodded. "Probably. It's not safe to take our time in such a crowded place."

Oz was looking very hard at her. There was a question in his expression, but he was too polite, too laconic to ask it. Willow got the gist, though. Something in her softened, and she offered her friend (she was fairly sure Oz was still her friend) a genuine smile.

"Don't worry," she told him, reaching out to touch his shoulder. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm with you, Oz."

She thought she saw gratitude passing over his face. Oz's hand reached up to cover hers, to squeeze it like he needed her. Maybe he did. For a moment, they understood each other perfectly.

"Okay," spoke the werewolf. "We've got this. Do you have all the supplies you'll need?"

"Almost. I need something personal of hers, something she can wear. Like a bracelet."

"I think I saw a few of those flying through the air during the melee. Shouldn't be a problem. I'll call some of the older weres I know, see if they know anything."

Willow nodded. There was something about having a mission, she felt. Having a goal. Maybe it was years of experience weighing on her, but nothing else really mattered when something important needed doing – not the past, not awkwardness, not petty, personal issues. There was a sort of freedom in putting it all aside. It felt good.

"Autobots, roll out," she announced.

Oz stared at her as if she had sprouted antlers.

"Xander talks," Willow explained.

"Right." A pause. "Kinda glad I bumped into you."

"You know? Me too."

And off they went.

* * *

Three miles south, still in Dristor, a cab pulled into a gas station. From it emerged a man somewhere in his thirties, dark skinned and wide shouldered, with humorless eyes that burned with focus. Not bothering to fuel up, he made a beeline for the store itself. A bell jangled as he entered. The clerk glanced up.

It was curiously empty inside – given the time of day, at least. The space itself was minimal, so racks of snacks and little necessities were stacked closely to form cramped, narrow aisles. Like many of the stores in this part of the city, it smelled of potent spices, body odor and watery cleansing solution. Sunlight flooded the tiny space in wide, golden slats through which dust particles drifted, drawing attention from just how deep the shadows were.

Whistling, the cabbie selected a bottle of some questionable looking grape liquid and a small packet of spiced nuts, turned, and approached the clerk with a deliberate, lumbering gait that would have spooked most men. The clerk himself, mousy and fair, was no exception.

"Just these?" asked the clerk.

"Ah," replied the driver. "Time for a midday pick me up, right?" He spoke in fluent Romanian, but with a strange, halting accent. The clerk focused on ringing up the purchases and not meeting the stranger's eyes. Something about the man was deeply unsettling.

A sum was murmured. Bills exchanged hands. The driver offered a smile that somehow didn't seem all that friendly, gathered his snacks and lumbered off towards the door. The clerk's eyes followed him as he went. It wasn't until the stranger had passed out of the shop that the boy uttered a sigh of relief and took his hand off the silent alarm.

"I'm going back to college," he muttered.

Outside the station, the cab driver was sifting through the change from his transaction and meandering up to a pay phone. He counted out the coins, plunk, plunk, plunk, and punched in a number from memory. It was five rings before anyone picked up.

"There might be a problem," he said into the receiver. He had shifted from his awkward Romanian dialect to a smoother, more natural tongue. Balkan Romani.

"What do you mean?" asked the driver's contact.

"I just picked up a pair of Americans and delivered them to the doorstep of your experiment. At least one of them is a werewolf and both of them might be witches. I think they aim to stop the girl's transformations."

The other end of the line was quiet for so long that the cabbie began to wonder if the call had been dropped. He was about to repeat himself when his contact rasped, "When?"

"An hour ago."

"And you just think to inform me now?"

"I wanted to make sure it was safe to contact you." The cabbie sounded a tad wounded. His friend grunted in frustration.

"Fine. I'll handle it. Tonight."

"You had better be careful. If the Cuza girl has outside help, she'll have more waiting in the wings."

"Tonight, Gavril."

* * *

The Cuza family hung as far back as they could get without leaving the room entirely. Which is generally a good policy when strangers use your apartment to conjure mystical forces. Oz, however, crouched a few feet away, eyes glued to Willow's every move. He wanted to on hand in case she needed anything. Someone to hold to magical chalice or... or whatever it was that would be going down. He didn't know.

The witch herself, meanwhile, had pushed what little furniture the Cuzas owned against the walls and sat in the center of the room, eyes closed. She was encircled by a ring of black votive candles, so chosen for the nature of a binding spell; it had been years before Willow was was comfortable working with the darker energies, but this was a dark working. No way around it. That being the case, she had chosen her tools very carefully. To her right lay a white handled dagger. To her left, a largeish chunk of citrine. The stench of dragon's blood, a favored incense of Willow's, mingled with the scents of the Cuza household, resulting in something just barely beyond definition. Directly in front of her, Willow had placed a woven necklace of Elena's atop a carefully carved wooden pentacle. Xander had made it for her. Buffy got crossbows for Christmas; Willow received portable points of power. Saving the world. Not that glamorous.

Willow was cautious. She took it slow. For fifteen or twenty minutes, she simply meditated, shutting out all distractions and getting in contact with the earth in this part of the world. She was a new presence here, something not recognized as right or welcome, and so she took her time. The air around her grew taut with power. They could all feel it, even old Gramma Cuza – who was, for once, blessedly silent. Oz grew restless. The longer Willow sat in her trance, flushing with energy, the more the wolf in him awoke. He could feel it sparking up his spine, itching to run, to howl, to hunt. Reacting to her magic. Staying still was murder.

At last, the witch exhaled, slowly and deliberately. She was ready to begin.

"In Hecate's name, she is bound to the flame. May it cast out the shift, may it save her the pain."

Because invoking Hecate _never_ ended badly, Oz thought.

"Here there is no doubt, herein there lies no shame; by mighty Hecate, I cleave the wild from the tame." Willow's voice was even and rhythmic, but it quaked with a double timber Oz had never heard before. Her right hand picked up the dagger while her left moved to rest atop the crystal; it was instantly alight with some deeply buried, primal glow, and the light was moving through her. Willow began directing the dagger above Elena's necklace, cutting swatches of magic through the air and letting it settle on the object like dust. "May her nature be split in twain. May her soul be hers to claim. O, mighty Hecate," Willow thundered, "with these words, the beast I do restrain!"

With an audible pop, a pocket of magic exploded in the room, briefly blinding all but Willow herself. The candles were extinguished, and the little party found themselves blinking in the darkness.

"Huh," Oz remarked. His voice was shaking.

"Ever the wordsmith," Willow teased. Fumbling about, she carefully located her box of matches and struck one, illuminating three frightened faces and one high strung werewolf. Still crouched, he was breathing raggedly and looking bewildered. Their eyes locked. For the first time in six years, Willow saw straight through to the wolf, focused and ready. It was fierce. It was ancient. Maybe it was frightening, but she knew it; she knew every inch of it. Her stomach dropped out and the room began to spin, but Willow didn't look away. Not for an instant.

"Shit!"

That would be the sound of the match burning down to meet her fingertips.

There was a scrambling in the darkness. Oz uttered an oath as he knocked over a candle, but his hands soon closed around Willow's and liberated the box she clutched. With a snap, he struck a match and lit one of the candles still undisturbed, brow constricted. "You okay?" he asked.

"Yeah," Willow grumbled. "Fine. I don't think it even really burned me. Stupid short matches- oh!" Recalling the actual purpose of the general witchiness, she snatched up the freshly enchanted necklace and inspected it by fire light. "Elena, come here."

Obediently, the girl inched forward. She was wide-eyed and well spooked, and something squirmed guiltily in Willow. It wasn't her intent to go around scaring the daylights out of good little Catholic girls. So she smiled warmly and gently, as reassuring as she could be. "Have a seat, sweetheart."

Elena knelt beside the witch and the werewolf. Up close, Willow could see her trembling. So it was with considerable caution that she fashioned the necklace around Elena's neck. "How's that? Feel anything?"

Elena was quiet a moment, contemplating. "Feels warm," she breathed.

"Feel evil?"

"...no?"

"Good answer," Willow assured her. She gave the child a comforting pat on the shoulder. "It won't hurt you. Keep it on and it'll keep you safe. You won't turn as long as you wear it."

"Are you sure?"

"Pretty sure."

Elena did not look convinced.

"Will's pretty powerful," Oz assured her. "It'll work." Willow shot him a smile. He returned it, bracingly. If there had been a moment of strangeness, it had passed.

"Elena fix now?" Mr. Cuza asked. It was the first sentence he'd managed to utter since Willow had gotten her mojo on. Oz's smile faltered.

"Not exactly," he began. "She still needs to learn to control it on her own."

Mr. Cuza stared uncomprehendingly at them.

"The charm only suppresses the... the badness, but it's not, like, a long-term solution." Willow was trying, okay. "Oz will have to work with her to figure out what's going on, and how to control it. She might have to. Um. Leave town for a while."

More blank staring.

"Could you maybe translate?" Oz asked Elena. Looking cross, the girl fired off an explanation in rapid Romanian. Her grandmother shrieked and ducked into the bedroom to noisily resume her bawling. Oz pressed his lips together in a grim, patient smile.

"Awesome," Willow observed.

"Do I really have to leave?" Elena asked. Her father was sinking into the couch, one hand over his mouth. Oz hesitated. He wasn't the type to speak if he wasn't sure what to say.

"Only for a little while," Willow cut in. "Just long enough to get all trained up and zen. I'm sure it'll go fast. We're pretty good at figuring out weird otherworldly type stuff. Been doin' it for years."

"Your father can come with," Oz offered. "Or your grandmother. Whoever. And no one's going to make you do anything you don't want to do."

"We need think about," Mr. Cuza said, speaking slowly and deliberately. "Elena-"

"I want to go, papa," Elena told him. "I want – vreau sa merg cu ei, ori de cate ori sunt pregatiti. Nu pot sta aici. Nu cu intreg orasul gindire ma injura sau orice altceva. Nam o viata aice."

Her father looked scandalized. "Nu stim acestor oameni, Elena!"

"Cred ca putem sa ai incredere in ei!"

"Ooh, yay," Willow cooed. "More angry Latiny words." For lack of anything better to do, she set to releasing the residual magics hanging low over the room and cleaning up the mess she had made. Whatever else may be said of Willow, she is a conscientious house guest.

The argument ran a while. Glancing at her phone, Willow frowned; it was getting on in hours. Afternoon was lingering, but evening would soon be threatening, and frankly, she was starving. Sometimes casting left Willow ravenous. And besides, she would need to check in soon. Xander got kind of twitchy about that.

She sat with Oz, at something of a loss.

"What do we do with this?" She asked him quietly. Oz made a frustrated noise.

"Don't know," he muttered. "This isn't really going like I'd planned. We can't just sit here all night."

"Can't really kidnap her, either," was Willow's valuable insight. "What about the guy that called you out here in the first place?"

"Florin?"

"Yeah. Could he help convince them? Or maybe swing by, play translator?"

Oz considered this. "He isn't in the city, but maybe if I called..."

"It's something, anyway."

The hollering, mounting in intensity, didn't appear ready to resolve itself any time soon. Willow shifted awkwardly. Despite the language barrier, being present during another family's private disagreements felt intrusive and wrong. Oz seemed similarly uncomfortable, judging by the way he scratched at his ear. That was practically fidgeting for him.

"Maybe we should give them some time," he proposed.

"Yeah," Willow agreed. "Let them absorb it. This is a pretty big shock. It's only polite."

"Do you wanna go-"

"Oh god yes."

They scrambled for the front door. Willow didn't think the Cuzas even heard their explanation.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Okay, apologies all around. I know this took forever, but finals kicked my ass, and I'm getting ready for a new job posting and training for basic, and it's all very exhausting. Hopefully the next one won't take so long! However, I think because there was such a long gap of time between this and the last chapter, there might have been a shift in tone. Hopefully this is where things'll start getting good. So I hope you guys will bear with me a while longer! Enjoy.

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There sure was a lot of meat in Romania.

Oz and Willow, through whatever luck it was that befell people like them, had managed to locate what had to be the most terrifyingly dilapidated hole-in-the-wall quick service restaurant the country had to offer. There were nicer, cleaner establishments as little as two or three miles deeper into the inner-city, of course, but those mainly catered to tourists. Local eateries in the slums had no such luxuries. It was within walking distance from the Cuza household, though, and was in fact the first place Oz and Willow had come across in their flight; that alone bumped the place up to the pair's first choice. It was a narrow, crackerbox building with apartment housing upstairs, boasting only four tables and a mismatched collection of chairs. The heavy stench of grease had long since been absorbed by yellowed, aging walls, and the floor was inlaid with cheap, peeling linoleum that seemed in desperate need of a good mopping. There were no menus. The one on duty chef had demanded their orders, and Oz, with his limited proficiency in Angry Balkans Dude, communicated their desire for cooked foodstuffs in return for currency as best he could. The result was identical plates of unidentifiable meat product.

Willow did not begin to care. She had gulped down an apple on her way out the door first thing that morning, but she had since been subsisting only on the coffee her new companion had brought her earlier in the day, and her improvised spell had badly drained her energy reserves on top of it. Willow _was _hunger. She devoured the contents of her plate indiscriminately, and god help her, it was delicious.

"I bet this is one of those secret places sophisticated foodies blog about," Willow mused around a gravy-sodden gulp. "Like, the big list of eastern European dives where only rich hipsters and natives get their chow on."

"There's a list of those?" Oz asked.

Willow shrugged.

It was the most he had said since they'd arrived. Not that Oz was normally a chatterbox, but The Situation (as Willow was rapidly starting to think of it) was weighing heavily on his shoulders. He had spent the meal staring into his meatballs with his brow furrowed, as if they could give him guidance. Anxiety tugged at the edges of Will's mind. His discomfort was hers.

Not knowing what to say, she pushed one of her own remaining meatballs listlessly around her plate. It was a mess. A bad one. She couldn't buy more than a few days before Xander would get nervous and make damn sure Elena's problems became the problems of the slayers at large. And yes, okay, maybe that was the right way to go here, but Willow wasn't sure. They weren't dealing with a big bad. This was a 14-year-old girl with a relatively normal life, and if she could be spared, it wouldn't be right dragging her into the Buffyverse. Once you're in it, you're in it; once you know, you know. There's no undoing it. No way to be 14 ever again.

And anyway, none of this was even technically her business. This was Oz's matter, and he needed to call the shots. Willow had invited herself in, and there were complexities at work that she didn't understand, not being a werewolf. It would be a mistake to try and take over. He looked stressed enough as it was.

Then, a thought struck Willow. Oz took off from Sunnydale, and for six long years, he lived a quiet, comfortable life among a cloister of gentle monks. It was as close to normal as a man like Oz could get. Then, ho ho, here comes Uberwitch, crossing his path like a damn black cat, and bang, mysterious possible possession marauding as garden variety lycanthropy. Maybe it was her. Maybe she brought trouble with her wherever she went. The notion froze the breath in her lungs, and Willow gasped.

Oz glanced up. "You okay?"

She quickly turned the gasp to a cough and bent over sideways, one hand over her chest for effect. Oz's eyes grew wide with alarm, but Willow took a swig out of her waterbottle and waved him off.

"Went down the wrong pipe," she croaked. "No big deal."

Alarm faded to concern. He didn't look happy, but he didn't look ready to leap over the table and perform the Heimlich maneuver, either.

"So..." Willow began once her pulse had returned to normal. "Got a plan cookin' in all that silence?"

It was Oz's turn to shrug. He had returned to his meal, but he was chewing very slowly, very thoughtfully. The man even masticated with intent. Not for the first time, Willow found herself wishing desperately for a glimpse inside his head. She never would, ever, but it was so hard to know what he was thinking, and so hard to find the patience to deal with it. This wasn't how things were done in the Slayer Corps. People just.. spoke. Freely and often.

"I'm kinda hoping Elena and her family will reach a peaceful consensus and pack her up before we get back," he admitted. Willow nodded in wistful agreement. It wasn't likely, but it was a nice thought. "I don't suppose you could mojo them all into being reasonable."

Willow's head snapped up, and an unfamiliar heaviness settled over her. He didn't know. Great Goddess above, she had forgotten that someone, somewhere didn't know. It felt... it felt wonderful and liberating and horrible in equal measure. Part of her was relieved. Shame still hung thick and heavy around Willow, and the idea that Oz didn't know, didn't think of her like that – of course she liked it. Of course she did. His memory of the girl in the Eskimo outfit costume wasn't tarnished by all the things she had done. It occurred to Willow that Oz was probably the last person alive capable of remembering her that way without the taint of who and what she really was. The thought was comforting and horrifying all at once.

Opening her mouth to respond, Willow hesitated, and then decided to sidestep the issue entirely. No need to drag old demons out into the light.

"I could," she admitted, "but it's best not to. Messing with someone else's will is tricky. Messy, even."

The man who had changed so little, in some ways, shot her a tired smile. "Just kidding."

Oh.

Of course he was.

Dammit, Willow.

"You've gotten really good, though, huh? At this magic thing."

Willow nodded. This Magic Thing. If she ever wrote an autobiography, that would be the title. "Yeah. You could say that. Have to be careful, though. Everything comes at a price."

Oz met her eyes with something she couldn't name. He was so fierce, so wild, and his single-minded intensity poured into her, hot and strange and mystifying. He saw more than she gave him credit for, maybe. She suddenly hated him for it.

She turned back to her meal.

Dusk was falling outside their horrible little eatery. They'd have to get back soon and make sure Willow's spell had done its job. She was confident it had, though, and between the force of her mojo and the Cuza's vacuum-sealed light-proofed cave, Willow was certain Elena would be fine. But a light-provoked transformation. That was strange. Werewolves were bound to the cycle of the moon, but they changed whether the light touched them or not. In some cases, they changed entirely at will, moon cycle be damned. The actual light served no practical function.

It sort of reminded Willow of Swan Lake. Princess Odette, if she recalled her Russian ballet correctly, was cursed to live as a swan, and could only resume her human form at night, when moonlight touched her feathers. What they had on their hands was a weird inversion of the classic story. It had been so long, though. Willow couldn't remember the details. She had last seen the production in high school, if the Don Bluth movie didn't count, and she was pretty sure it didn't.

But... wait. Wait, wait. The ballet was just a ballet, but the story was taken from Russian folk lore, Willow was pretty sure. With just a couple hundred miles dividing Russia and Romania, there was a lot of fairy tale overlap. That was a big gap to account for, sure, but...

Mind flying ahead of her hands, Willow dug through her purse and unearthed her phone. Thank the gods for modern technology; seconds later she was googling the story's origin, eyes flying across the screen.

"Hey," she said, "hey, I think-"

A shudder cut her off.

Oz and Willow locked eyes. They could both feel it. The surly Romanian cook continued to putter around the back as if nothing was happening, but the energy over Dristor had been pulled unnaturally taut, like a rubber band ready to snap. Magic was being done. Big magic. And it was close.

They leapt to their feet in unison. Willow barely remembered to grab her purse before they ran out the door, leaving half-eaten mystery meals behind. It was a good thing the cook had demanded payment up front; they weren't stopping for anything, and he seemed like the sort to chase down bill-skipping tourists.

So they ran. It was later than Willow had thought. The sun had already disappeared behind the horizon, and chill was setting once more into the air. The sky was still shot through with beams of pink and orange, but it was fading fast, and the streets were uncomfortably empty. No cars. No people. No stray dogs, even. The only sounds were made by Oz and Willow themselves; their boots slapping the pavement, their ragged, uneven breath. Willow's hair was getting long again and it streamed out behind her, lovely but dull in the dimness. The unnatural tension was growing. Getting worse. It made the hair stand up on the back of her neck. It made her want to scream.

Instead, she ran.

When they reached the Cuza's tenement, all seemed well. That was the tip off. It was too still, too calm, too perfect, like someone had hit the pause button on a security feed. The air around the building shimmered with wrongness, and Willow had to fight the overwhelming urge to walk away, to go do something else.

"What is it?" Oz gasped. He sounded like the wind had been knocked out of him.

"Wards," was Willow's grim response. "Strong ones. Ward of Misdirection, I think. Someone pulled a whole lot of energy out of the air to make anything that happens in this building unnoticable. People won't even want to approach it. Great security."

"Can you break it?"

"Like a piggy bank."

Strong as these strange wards were, Willow was still Willow. It only took a few moments. She reached out along the protected bubble, searching, grasping for the crack. The point of weakness. It was difficult to force so much energy to do something it didn't want to do, and all she had to do was release it, like poking a pin into a water balloon. With a mighty, thunderous crack, she did just that, and the spell came crashing down.

The Cuzas' door had been broken through. It was a gaping, splintered wreck. Even from the courtyard, Willow and Oz could now hear the screaming inside. They ran.

Four strange men stood inside. They were tall, thin and dark, wild-looking and fierce, but in an entirely different way from the werewolf by Willow's side. There was a gauntness about them. A reckless hunger. They froze at the interruption and everyone shared a tense glance; one of the men held Mr. Cuza by the throat, knife in hand, while one covered him, another bore down on Elena, and the fourth was exploring the stage of Willow's last spell.

A heartbeat passed. No one moved. Suddenly, an order was barked, Willow saw the knife slide into Elena's father. Blood spilled across the weathered floor. Mr. Cuza took a final, gurgling gasp of life, and there was nothing but the fight.

It happened quickly. Too quickly to make sense of. Everyone flew into action at once, hair whipping, boots pounding, screams ripping through the evening stillness. Oz let loose a bone-rattling howl; when had he changed? Willow didn't know. He was on the man that held the knife, ripping out his throat with a vicious snarl, while Mr. Cuza's lifeless form slumped glassy-eyed to the floor. The air was thick with the coppery stench of fresh blood. Elena was crouched in a corner, shaking and sobbing incoherently, and her grandmother had thrown her frail arms boldly across the child. It was the only protection she had to offer. One of the men lurched towards them, but with a crack of red-hot magic, Willow tore him away.

It came as a surprise when her body went rigid with the strike of a magical counter-attack. Normally when Willow hit something, it didn't hit back.

Caught off-gaurd, she found herself skidding across the floor. An upward glance was filled with the approaching form of the fourth assailant, the one that had been poking around the site of Willow's last casting. In his upraised hand he clutched something long, jagged, old and off-white, and she knew instantly that it was not an artifact she wanted to tangle with. Before he brought it down upon her, Willow screeched the ancient phrase that pulled the air around her taut in a momentary shield. Her attacker ricocheted with the force of it.

"Oz!" she screamed. "Oz! We have to go! Elena! Get Elena!"

One of the men had torn the grandmother off the girl and thrown the old woman against the corner of a wall. She now lay motionless and broken, a pool of blood around her head. Some distant part of Willow thought it looked like a halo. Oz had dispatched her murderer like a dog worrying a rope; his disembodied arm had somehow landed on the other side of the room. Willow tried not to look at it. She scrambled to her feet, slipping in someone's blood as she did, and somehow summoned the strength to lash the final two attackers in their place, her arms shaking with the effort.

Oz, human again, hoisted Elena over his shoulder and booked ass. (Literally, Willow noted – his clothes were in a shredded pile near the doorway.) It gave Willow a moment to peer into the eyes of the violent ringleader. Something horrible gazed back. He stood there, clutching his instrument and memorizing her face, emanating hatred in hot and horrible waves.

Willow couldn't look away. For a moment, just the fastest of heartbeats, she thought she was looking at herself.

She ran.

Snagging her purse on her way, Willow stumbled out the splintered doorway and tripped her way down the stairs two and three at a time. She landed hard, twisting her ankle, but kept going. Oz had planted Elena in the courtyard and was turning to run back into the fray, but Willow gestured for him to stay put. With shaking hands, she pulled out a jar of pre-prepared herbs and began drawing three interlocking circles around her allies. Her power wouldn't hold them for long, being divided like this. They had only seconds. She dropped to the ground and began raising the energy necessary for a transport spell.

A clatter from the bloodied apartment unit told them all the attackers had broken free. But it didn't matter; the earth was trembling. The circles began to glow with amber tinted resonance. Willow felt the tug that meant she would soon be hurtling through a homemade temporal fold, and through all the chaos and panic, she felt a tingle of victory rushing through her veins. They'd done it. They were going to get away.

"Willow!"

At the last moment, Willow glanced up. Elena was crouched on the patchy grass, arms around herself, screaming. Dusk was just gone. Moonlight, weak and watery but moonlight all the same, was washing over the courtyard, and Elena was changing.

And then they were gone.


End file.
